Guns
by Shizuka no Taisho
Summary: Matt didn't like guns. Never had, never would. There was just something about the certifiable weapon that threw him off; feeling the cold metal against his skin, tasting gunpowder in the air.


Matt didn't like guns. Never had, never would. There was just something about the certifiable weapon that threw him off; feeling the cold metal against his skin, tasting gunpowder in the air. He didn't like it. It was too much power in his hands. Power he didn't want, never would. Fuck, he hated even having the skill to wield it. Sucked, since a Wammy brat, of course Matt knew how to fire a gun. He understood all the technical how-to's, could list off each part as if it were the back of his hand, and had extensive knowledge of every piece of weaponry fired in WWII. But even though he got all the tech talk and could shoot one, if the urge ever hit him, didn't mean he had to like it. Nope. He was perfectly fine using his sarcasm and quick thinking to get out of a jam, thanks. Guns were just...not his thing.

Oh sure, fake guns were alright. He'd played enough shooting games at enough arcades to know that it was a totally different thing, and therefore felt A-ok doing it. Target practice wasn't so bad either, when the guns were shooting pieces of paper, or a wooden target set up yards away. Matt had plenty of experience with both...again, because he was a Wammy brat. Roger and Wammy were both adamant as hell that all of their charges know how to fire weapons of every nature, including some that were definitely illegal. Perks of being a genius orphan? Maybe. Personally, the appeal had always been lost on him. It was a gun, and every time a shot rattled his forearm, tingles racing up to his shoulders, Matt was reminded that this was a dangerous weapon, and reality was cruel. One wrong move. One mistake. That's all it'd take. So Mello could make fun of him all he wanted, shooting his pistols and shotguns and AK-47's like some crazy mafia lord. Matt always took a pass.

Until that day. The day, years and years later, when time found it right to reunite them and Mello shoved a gun into his hands, telling him they were going head to head with Kira. Taking the offensive and stealing his proxy, the reporter who, according to the blond, was a class A bitch. While he was stealing her away by motorcycle, it'd be Matt's job to take her guards on a chase. City wide, if he had to. And no matter what, at all costs, he had to escape. He had to live, Mello had all but demanded. If it meant giving himself up, fine. Do it. If it meant posturing himself on hands and knees, ok. Matt had done worse in his lifetime, for a lot worse reasons too. But if he was supposed to stay alive, going so far as turning himself over...then why did he need a gun? Wouldn't that just make things worse? They'd shoot him on sight if they knew he was armed!

"I don't fucking care how much you don't like guns. Keep it on you, at all costs. Got it? If we get into trouble, I want to know that I've got backup."

For that reason alone, Matt did as he was told. He didn't much care about his own safety, but Mello was the one person he made top priority. Always had, always would. Just like his dislike of guns, that was one thing he didn't picture changing. It's why he didn't protest when the blond all but wrenched the weapon out of his hands and shoved it into the holster under his vest, muttering about stupid redheads and their pansy ass morals under his breath. It's why Matt left it there the whole car ride to Takada, and felt it growing heavy on his shoulder when the assholes in suits were chasing him down, engines roaring like hungry dragons. And it's why he felt the metal grow slick with his own sweat as he faced them now, car at his back and hands in the air, fuck knows how many barrels pointed his way. Matt smirked, puffing a bit of smoke out his nose. Well damn, just when things were getting interesting. Was this the point where he should give himself up? A gun cocked, and every other followed suite, making midori eyes widen just a smidge. Yeah. Definitely. Were Mello there, he'd probably drive him to his knees himself, put on a flashy show of them giving themselves up.

But Mello wasn't there. And like it or not, Matt wasn't all that keen on getting captured. Chances were he wouldn't be getting out if they did get a hold of him, despite what his other half said, and he'd rather be dead than risk them getting any intel out of him. Sure, he'd undergone training on how best to deal with torture, but Matt didn't wanna rely on things like that. Pain had a nasty tendency of shutting him down, or loosening his tongue. That was the last thing he needed. Not when he knew where Mello was, and the rest of their plans, if they even made it out alive. One fuck up on his part, and he'd be facing a lifetime of prison, or worse, with no Mello to keep him company. Which didn't leave a lot of options. Except...

Fingertips twitched, reaching towards his neck. Matt hesitated only for a second, stupidly letting his mouth get away from him. Something about the Japanese having big guns. He wasn't really paying attention. What were the chances of him getting shot before he could take one of them out? Getting closer to his target, he eyed the band of suits and grinned, bravado he really wished he was feeling. Definitely pretty damn high. He'd probably be swiss cheese before getting in a single shot. Not so shitty, since he wasn't looking forward to holding the gun, much less shooting it. He hated guns. Hated everything about them. But he'd do whatever necessary now, even if it meant embracing the power literally at his fingertips, and using it to do what he'd always thought unthinkable. Because despite his inclinations towards total avoidance of anything involving gunpowder and triggers, he wasn't going to put Mello at any more risk than necessary. He couldn't maneuver out of this corner, he couldn't run; all he could do was fight, give up, or take matters into his own hands. Either way he looked at it, there was no way he was gonna make it to the meeting place Mello set up. No fucking way. But dammit, he'd do Mello one last favor before it all ended. He was his friend. His backup, yeah? That meant doing whatever the hell he had to. And right now, these guys were asking for a bullet right between the eyes.

Matt inched his hands closer and closer, spouting off another round of bullshit as the guys looked on. They wouldn't shoot? Yeah fucking right. He was dead as a doorknob, pushing up daisies. The only question was whe-

The bang roared in his ears, piercing his skull. Matt's hands slipped, and as red seeped over his vision, followed by piercing black, he let his cigarette slowly drop, body tumbling backwards in a weak collapse. Shit. Right when he was starting to grow a pair, as Mello would put it. Fucking go figure it would happen now.

'Sorry Mello. Can't say I didn't try.'

Grimacing, his thoughts tumbled away after a final, snarky adieu.

He really, really hated guns.


End file.
